


The Accident

by littlemissvincentvega



Series: Vince's Princess ♥ [16]
Category: Pulp Fiction (1994)
Genre: Bickering, Blood and Injury, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Gun Violence, Vince Is An Idiot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-04
Updated: 2019-05-04
Packaged: 2020-02-21 15:46:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18705394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlemissvincentvega/pseuds/littlemissvincentvega
Summary: what was supposed to be a romantic midnight outing with your hitman boyfriend goes horribly wrong.





	The Accident

“Fuckfuckfuck!!” The car swerves as your dumbass boyfriend yanks the steering wheel left, and you go screeching down the road. You grip the passenger seat for dear life with one hand, the other clamped on the roof handle-- Vincent had just accidentally shot a fucking stranger.

* * *

 

“Baby, I’m tellin’ ya, next time we go to Euro Disney you need to try a Royale with Cheese--”

You scowl at him. “Vince, for the last goddamn time, I’m fucking vegetarian.”

He puffs and blows. “Suit yourself.”

The two of you were parked in a McDonald’s parking lot chomping down on a midnight snack. He had arrived home from a job at just before 11pm, and after lazing about in bed complaining about being hungry, Vincent had driven you both to the nearest cheap drive-thru. 

“The fuck is this you’ve put on?” he sniffs, fiddling with the radio.

“It’s the radio,” you sigh, and he gives you a look. “Fuck you.”

He puts a hand on your thigh, mindlessly stroking his thumb along it as he concentrates on his fatass burger. You do the same with your fries, your right hand over his. There’s always something calming about eating junk food in the car together, and it’s something you and Vince did fairly often. Content in that moment, you gaze up at the blackened sky, when--

“Can you shut your fucking mouth when you’re eating please?” you huff, jerking your head round at him. His cheeks are stuffed with food, and he looks at you, eyes wide and offended.

“What?!” he spits, bits of food spewing through the air.

You cringe at him. “Oh my god, just chew with your mouth shut, you’re driving me nuts!”

“Christ, sorry.”

Not feeling so hungry any more, you dump your leftover fries in Vincent’s lap and rest your head on his shoulder. “Thanks for my food.”

“Mhm,” he mumbles, chewing. “Baby, wanna go for a little walk before we head home?”

“Sure,” you grin, kissing his cheek.

After he’s finished snacking, Vincent steps out of the car and comes round to your side, opening the door for you like a true chauffeur. He offers you a hand, smirking, and as you take it, kisses yours. You giggle, letting him spin you around in a dance, and take his hand. “Honey, you’re hot,” he says, followed by a long, rumbling burp and a childish giggle.

“Jesus, Vince,” you grin, shutting the car door and dragging him across the street. Living in Burbank had its perks, one of them being super close to the beach-- midnight walks along the shore were the reason Vincent thought he was a (as he put it) ‘natural romantic’. Bearing in mind this was the same guy who gave you all the gory details of when he accidentally blocked up Jules’ toilet. “C’mon, I wanna go walk along the shore.”

“Of course, baby.”

You excitedly lead him down to the beach, kicking off your shoes (there was nobody else on there) and feeling the cold sand between your toes. He does the same, bending down to take off his socks while you skip closer to the shore, shivering from the slight chill of the night. Not a minute passes and he jogs down, joining you. “Nights like these, huh,” he smiles, letting you cling to his arm as the two of you slowly walk along the beach. “Natural romantic, I told ya.”

“Sure,” you giggle. As the two of you enjoy your little stroll and have one of your mindless conversations, you tug on his sleeve. “Did you bring your gun?”

“Uh huh, why?”

“Just in case.”

With a smug look on his face, Vincent pulls out his gun and suddenly grabs you, pulling you close to him and prodding it against your waist. “I’m takin’ you captive,” he giggles.

You roll your eyes, smirking. “Why?”

His grip on you softens for a moment while he thinks. “Uh... havin’ too good a tits?” he grins, giving one of them a squeeze.

“Sleaze.”

“Aw, c’mon baby, you know I’m not with ya for your tits!” he protests. “I mean, you’re good at blowjobs too!”

“I know,” you smirk. “Anyway, you can’t shoot me, I’d stamp on your throat as a ghostie.”

“You wanna bet?” 

“No, I fucking don’t!”

Vincent chuckles to himself. “Suit yourself.” He fucks about with his gun as the two of you begin a steady walk back to the car, throwing it between his hands like a child-- it was as if he was  _trying_  to make himself look like an idiot.

“How old are you?” you scoff.

“Old enough to be your da-” he begins, but is interrupted by a deafening  _BANG!_  that almost knocks you off your feet. Looking at each other in horror, you and Vincent slowly turn to the man the bullet hit-- he’s sprawled on the sand, not moving.

“Vince...”

Your boyfriend looks around frantically. “Fuck, oh fuck, baby, what the  _fuck_ did I do?!” he panics, pacing back and forth. Luckily for you two, there’s nobody else to be seen, though you’re both spattered with blood (and a little bit of brain). After locking eyes with him for a couple of seconds, your instincts kick in and you grab his hand, running as fast as you can back to the car and dragging him behind you. He swings the car door open for you. “Get in, quick, baby,” he ushers, scanning the area.

* * *

 

As the car screeches around the corner, Vincent fumbles around the side compartment and yanks out his cellphone, shoving it in your hands without looking. “Call Jules, tell ‘im to tell Marsellus what the fuck just happened ‘cause no  _way_ am I gettin’ fuckin’ caught, nuh-uh, not today,” he rambles.

“Shut up and focus on not crashing the fucking car,” you say, dialling Jules’ cell. It doesn’t take long for him to pick up, like usual. “Jules? Can you hear me?”

“Vince, it’s fuckin’ one in the mornin’, fuck you, man, the fuck d’you want?!”

“Nonono, it’s me, it’s (Y/N), we’re in a situation, Vincent just shot a guy by accident again and told me to call you!”

You hear him sigh. “Shit. Where are you?”

“I don’t know, we drove off as soon as we could, uh, there’s like, blood all on us and stuff, I’m freaking out, he’s driving like a maniac, I don’t know what to do!” you cry, your breaths becoming hitched. 

“Alright, alright, be cool, (Y/N), I’ll call Marsellus now and tell him what the fuck happened. Tell that dumb motherfucker to go home and wait there.”

Anxiously, you gulp. “I will.”

“You cool?”

“Yeah.”

“Alright, sweetie. Stay cool. I’m callin’ Marsellus right now, okay? Tell that fucker to drive safe.”

“I will,” you say. “Thanks Jules, bye.”

“What did he say?” Vincent asks, a little bit calmer than before. 

“He said he’s calling Marsellus now, and that we should drive home and wait there and you need to drive safely and I need to be cool.”

“Fair enough. I’m sorry, baby.”

“It’s cool. I’m cool, we’re cool.”

The usually five minute drive home seems so long and drawn out with the panic you two are in, but soon enough he pulls up in his usual parking space, slamming his foot on the brake and jerking you both forward. Without a word, the two of you immediately get out and speedwalk (arm in arm, ain’t no situation gonna kill your romance) into the apartment complex he lives at, then dash to the elevator. As the doors close, you both let out sighs of relief, looking at one another tiredly. “The fuck did we just do, baby?” 

“I don’t know, it’s scary,” you sniffle, clutching onto his hand timidly. He rubs his thumb against your hand, looking at you with a layer of guilt in his eyes-- Vincent never wanted to hurt you. True, he could be an insensitive asshole sometimes, but it was never his intent to upset you.

“I’m sorry, honeypie, it’ll be fine, it always is, huh?” he assures you, and the elevator doors open at the seventh floor. Hurriedly, he heads to his apartment (no. 52) and fumbles with his keys, trying to unlock the door. You trail behind him and as he opens the door, follow him into the apartment, still anxious. “So, uh, the fuck did Julie say again?” he asks.

The two of you go to his bedroom (well,  _your_ bedroom, as you always say, seeing as you stayed there often enough it was practically home) and you join him in sitting on the end of the bed. “We just have to wait at home, I think?”

“Alright.” He wraps his arm around you, pulling you close. “I’m really sorry, lemonpie.”

“It’s fine, I just feel bad for the fucker you shot.”

“Why?”

You look up at him, scowling. “Vince, he’s a fucking person, that’s why!”

“Oh, yeah.”

Vincent was a sweetheart really, but he always found new ways to surprise you with his dumbassery. “God, look at your hair, look at all that shit-- let me comb it, babe, please!” you beg, burying your head in his neck and kissing it softly.

“Fuckin’ Christ, alright,” he huffs, and you jump up, fetching the comb from his en-suite. With a grin on your face, you kneel behind him on the bed, dragging the comb through his knotted, greasy (and not to mention bloody) locks. “Hey, not so violent, baby!” he cringes.

“Should’a thought of that before you chewed with your mouth open,” you retort.

“I said I was so--” he begins, but you flick the back of his head with a smirk. “Y’know, you’re bein’ a real little shit tonight.”

“You’re the one who shot an innocent stranger.”

“How the fuck d’you know he was innocent?!” he says defensively, turning around to face you. “I could’a done the world a favour there!”

“Well we’ll never know because you didn’t give the bastard a chance!”

Defeated, he turns back around, miffed. “It was only an accident,” he mutters under his breath. 

“Are you done complaining yet?”

“I’m not complainin’, I--”

You cut him off again with a flick to the back of his head, and continue combing out the clots of blood, cringing at the state of it. “Yuck, I think I need to wash your hair, this isn’t pretty.”

“No  _way_ , if fuckin’ Marsellus gets here or some other fucker workin’ for him and sees you washin’ my hair like I’m a baby, I’ll look like--” he splutters, trying to think of a word, “--like a fuckhead!”

“You looked like one  _before_ you shot that guy, you looked like one  _while_ you shot him, and you look like one now,” you retort.

He huffs. “Whatever, just fuckin’ wash it, I don’t even care. In fact, why don’t ya make it bright pink while you’re at it? Make me look even more fuckin’ stupid?”

“I’m tempted, but it’s not worth the effort,” you smile, hopping off the bed. “Wait there, babe.” Grinning to yourself at the opportunity, you head to the kitchen and fill up a large bowl (that you’d usually use for popcorn) with warm water. Sure, it had been overall pretty traumatic, but laughter was the best medicine, right? Giggling, you return to the bedroom and Vincent’s face drops.

“I’m not a fuckin’ dog!”

“I know, I love dogs. C’mon,” you say, placing the bowl on the floor, “dip your hair in, let me baptise you.”

“Fuckin’ Christ. Y’know what? Fine, just ‘cause I complained at you earlier and I’m a good boyfriend,” he growls, yanking off his jacket and leaving it in a scruffy pile on the bed. He lays on the floor and lets you gently dunk his hair in the bowl, then you squirt a little shampoo on his hair, massaging the blood from it. He quietens down after this, and it seemed to you like he was actually really relaxed by it-- you peek round his shoulder and see his eyes closed in contentment.

“You like it?”

“Mhm. Feels nice.”

Smiling, you run the comb through his hair again, and the blood seems to be coming out nicely-- though the moment is ruined when the door swings open and Winston Wolfe (along with Jules) struts in, followed by a burst of laughter. “Christ, Vega, is this a ladies’ salon?” Winston titters, and Vincent lets out a tired sigh.

“No!”

Jules can hardly contain himself. “Jeez, man, I was gonna leave it to Mr. Wolf to deal with this and go back to sleep, but man am I glad I came along!”

“It’s not fuckin’ funny!”

“Actually, it is,” smirks Winston. He looks across at you. “Honey, you wouldn’t fetch me a coffee, would ya?”

“No problem, Mr. Wolfe. Lots’a cream, lots’a sugar?” you grin, and he nods approvingly. This wasn’t the first time you’d met him and it sure as hell wouldn’t be the last time, not with Vincent’s stupidity. As you totter off to the kitchen, Vincent stands up, scrubbing his hair sheepishly with a towel.

“She made me let her do it,” he mutters, giving the two guys a look.

“Hey, hey, leave the lovely lady alone. That girl just watched you shoot some innocent motherfucker and offered to wash that shit out  _your_ hair, so be fuckin’ grateful,” Winston growls. 

“Yeah, man, you want me to tell her you been shit talkin’ her?” Jules taunts.

“Fuck you, man, I wasn’t shit talkin’ her,  _fuck you!!”_

“Alright gentlemen, stop with the arguing and let me figure somethin’ out,” says Winston. “So, uh, bet it’s been a while since you’ve had shampoo on that greasy mop’a yours, huh?” 

Jules chuckles and, cursing under his breath, Vincent storms out to the kitchen, where you’re stirring the guys’ coffees. “Baby, tell ‘em to stop makin’ fun of me,” he whines, leaning against the counter.

“Christ, Vince, I’m not your mother, this isn’t a playdate!” you exclaim, rolling your eyes. It shuts him up for a moment.

After looking rather docile, he shuffles over to you. “Can I have a cuddle or somethin’?” he mutters.

“What was that?” you tease, putting a hand behind your ear.

He clears his throat. “Can I have a cuddle?”

Smiling, you wrap your arms around him, letting him cradle you. The two of you stand there swaying gently, his chest rising up & down beneath your head, and he lets out a sigh. Feeling guilty about the whole situation, Vincent squeezes his eyes shut. “I love you, honeypie,” he mumbles.

“I love you too,” you grin, stepping on your tiptoes and kissing his cheek. 

“Aaaawwwwwwwwww,” a voice says, and you turn to see Jules and The Wolf standing in the doorway, cackling away to themselves. “Love’s young dream,” Winston smirks. 

Almost instantly, Vince lets go of you and goes into defensive mode. “Fuck you man, fuck you!”

“No, it’s rather sweet, really. You love your little lady.”

“I know, shut up!” he complains, avoiding their eyes. “Can we just sort this shit out please?”

“Hold your fuckin’ horses, I need my coffee,” says Winston, smiling at you as you pass it him. “Thanks, sweetheart.”

“No problem, Mr. Wolfe,” you smile.

“Oh, and good job on that asshole’s hair,” he adds, nodding at Vincent, who can’t help but snap.

“Fuck you!” 

**Author's Note:**

> i really enjoyed writing this!! i might do a part 2 if it's wanted bc the ending was a bit shit and i could definitely add more on the aftermath, but if not then enjoy ♥♥


End file.
